The Vigilant Night
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: The wait was itself a war. Written for Lady Phoenix Fire Rose's "The Scenery Competition" scene 2 also for a forgotten serenade's "The Fear Competition". - collection of scenes/oneshots.
1. Scene 1

**A/N: **This is written for Lady Phoenix Fire Rose's: The Scenery Competition Round 1. Admittedly the timing was bad (apparently I read the date wrong; thought the first round was in _July_, not smack in my exam period in _June_). Hope it still works anyway. Maybe I can work the other scenes into it. No harm in working with the scenes even if I don't make it to the second round, right? Or however this round system works.

Anyway, enjoy. And wish me luck. Who invented the torture called exams anyway?

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_**The Vigilant Night**_

_Scene 1_

Rain pounded against the windows, coming down in relentless sheets of water from the blackened sky. Just barely heard over the rain was the terrible howling of the wind and the cold glass trembled in response. The hand holding the curtains away from the frosted surface trembled too, prompting the heavy material to sway back into his previous position. Tassels hung on either side by the bottom frame: they were red ironically, laced with gold, but Dudley simply left them be. It was far more cheery with the curtains drawn over the storm progressing outside. Far more cheery when no-one was wondering whether the weather was simply nature's will or an omen for something worse. Whether it was normal or part of the Wizarding War which should not have concerned them in the least.

Their new lives had taken a little adapting to, particularly with his father stubbornly insisting they'd be back home in a matter of days. That first morning, the beefy man had been counting the seconds by his wrist-watch. And then the minutes. Then the hours. His mother had wrung her handkerchief till the corners began to fray and the dark haired woman, Hestia Jones, explained house-keeping rules to them. That took all morning, considering the Witch wasn't used to explaining the ways of magic to Muggles, _they_ weren't particularly used to hearing about the topic without blowing a rather short fuse, and…well, everyone was anxious for varying reasons. Indeed, Hestia's explanations made little sense at all until a barn owl swooped down the chimney, clutching a letter. It was the relief of knowing that Harry was safe and sound at the Burrow that made her words understandable…to his ears at least.

His mother still looked a little ill at ease, although she had somewhat relaxed since her arrival. Whatever she said, he was sure know that Petunia had really loved her sister. It was just years of bitterness against magic he supposed. But he didn't really understand it. From a young age he'd been raised to never say that word and scorn it's very thought, but over the past few years he'd begun to doubt that. After all, while magic had dumped his cousin on their doorstep, the boy had proved to be – as disgusting as it was becoming to admit of late – useful.

Dudley had, admittedly, been rather spoiled throughout his journey of youth. He technically had another year of adolescence to go; he wouldn't be eighteen and a legal adult until the following June. But whatever changes could be made, his relationship with his cousin would likely never be rekindled – not that they had much of one to begin with. Their parting had perhaps been the highlight of their bond, a simple cordial handshake of farewell as cool and fleeting as the raindrops pattering upon the veiled windowpane. Before that was the dance through a rocky terrain; the only cup of tea he'd managed to get through the door wound up in little bits of porcelain in the rubbish bin. It may have been an accident; Harry had barely exited his room for the summer. It was remarkable, Dudley reflected, that the boy hadn't felt the need to visit the bathroom more than one or twice in a single a day (he didn't, after all, shadow the boy during every minute of his existence of Number 4 Privet Drive so he couldn't be entirely sure there weren't any additional ventures throughout the night). Knowing the nightmares and how horrible they could be (the Dementors had left their mark), the slightly older boy had decided after a long period of thought that the segregation was more likely due to Harry's own problems, both in his own world and in a place he could never really call home than any lasting ill-will towards him. After all, Harry had saved his life.

No…he reflected. That wasn't quite right. Their worlds weren't so separate anymore. After all, he was in a "safe-house" that was about as big as the haunted house a bunch of classmates had set up in junior high and about as shocking…until one got used to the dishes scrubbing themselves and the crochet needle weaving patterns of green in front of a chilly fire.

He wondered if there was a way to make it go warm. It was starting to get a little chilly.

On instinct, he flicked the curtains back again, before letting the material slide through his fingers to cover the frost-bitten window once more. Robert Frost would have a field-day with that.

No…that wasn't right. Robert Frost was a poet, wasn't he?

In any case, Frosty – or whoever was the guy who supposedly went around drawing on icy panes, was about the only person who would have a field day with the window. Even behind the thick curtain, the chill seeping whirling outside reminded him horribly of those Dementors.

'Oh dear.' He jumped a little at the voice, then a little further when he felt something warm steal through his fingertips. He turned to find the funny man in the bowling hat (whose name he still struggled to remember) holding out his stick (his _wand_). He immediately backed away from the window with apprehension growing, before the other male gave a cheesy grin and lowered it.

'Jumping at shadows, eh?' he asked, tucking the stick behind his ear, before rubbing his cheeks. 'It's hard to tell what's natural nowadays or them Dem-'

'Oh, don't say their name.' That was Hestia, who'd brought some odd looking treats in. That was another thing that needed adapting to. The weird delicacies of the Wizarding World.

In any other circumstance, it would have been amusing, watching Vernon Dudley lose weight. But everyone was apprehensive.

'The name is harmless,' the man in the bowler-head mumbled, but stepped away from the window.

'Well,' the woman sighed, brushing away black hair from her forehead. 'We're not all Dumbledore.'

They all recognised that name. Mrs Dursley lifted her head from its rested position; she was listening too.

Hence why all four of them jumped when there was a sharp tap on the window. It took a moment of hammering hearts and drawn wands before the window was raised to admit the water-logged owl.

The man in the bowler-hat (one of these days, he would learn the other's name) took the thick envelope and withdrew the parchment, drying it with a flick of his right wrist before skimming over its contents.

'Oh good. Good.' A grin spread over his face.

Hestia looked at him. 'Is that-?'

'He's safe.' There was a series of nods following. 'Harry's safe, bless my soul…'

Dudley wasn't too sure he knew the scope of his cousin's troubles but it certainly was a relief to know Harry was safe. Although, to his knowledge, the other was still with his friends…

'Oh, those fools,' the black-haired woman grumbled, taking the letter before shaking her head. 'Really, they ought to be a little more wary about what they put onto paper.'

Her tone suggested otherwise of course. After all, good news was what kindled the fire to burn a little warmer when the windows froze and the rain pattered insistently on the walls.

_End of Scene 1_

Word Count: 1225


	2. Scene 2

**A/N: **This is written for Lady Phoenix Fire Rose's: The Scenery Competition Round 2, doubled up with a forgotten serenade's: The Fear Challenge.

Maybe next time I'll write a Harry scene. At least this one turned out longer.

* * *

_**The Vigilant Night**_

_Scene 2_

Out the window was a beautiful glade, full of wild flowers of all kinds. They covered the ground in a field of colours: reds, yellows, pinks, purples, blues and greens. Beyond the glade was a forest with tree leaves that sparkled in the sunlight. You could see little animals flit between and amongst the trees. The sun shone brightly in the sky, warming the beautiful little world. From among the trees came the sweet song of birds chirping.

Dudley reached up for the catch, attempting to let some autumn air into the warm room. With a little working, it came loose, disrupting the beautiful melody with a grated screech. The impression left was like that from the drills at a dentist, or one scraping their nails along a chalk-board…and goodness knew he'd done that enough in his days. Maybe it was karma, he mused to himself as a loud squawk shot through the air, preceding a flock of sparrows that shot into the air in fright. It would figure that the things he did to invite company in the past years was depriving him of it now.

At first, there had been a sort of thrill: running away to the country side, far from civilisation as a war descended from the horizon. It wasn't that the gravity had been wholly lost on him; he knew this "You Know Who" was not to be taken lightly. He controlled those dreaded Dementors – he still got violent shivers at the very thought – and, according to others, creatures and magic besides. While Harry hadn't disclosed much on the subject, Diggle had been rather talkative and through various fits of emotion, he'd managed to reveal quite a bit over the months that had passed. The murders all over Britain. The little boy who had turned on and destroyed his parents. The number of werewolves spreading with each bite and the mutilated bodies piling up beside the number. How people like _them_, Muggles, powerless folk, were tortured without the barest consequence to be enforced. How this "You Know Who" ruled the world like a puppeteer plucking at strings.

He wasn't entirely sure of the actual name and the ignorance made him a little uncomfortable – Diggle refused to say it – nor could he attempt to voice the correct combination of sounds as the woman Hestia had stumbled upon him and given him the most vicious (another hint of karma) tongue-lashing he had ever been subjected to. The apology had been rather short, revealing only an additional tidbit of information: the name, whatever it was, was a trigger for a bunch of angry "Death Eaters". And the name was scary enough for him to not want anything to do with it.

But on days like that, where the sweet Autumn breeze sifted through the now open window and the birds picked up their symphony in the distance, it was hard to imagine how dead the world looked a horizon away. How crowded with fear, where monsters bred from nightmares sucked live out of the fleeing and the ignorant.

The sun shone in blue sky.

'It's safe.'

He almost jumped as Hestia's unexpected voice spoke from behind him. Perhaps another bout of karma…although his own sneaking about hadn't been nearly as innocent.

'Dementors hate the sun,' the dark-haired woman explained. 'And the wards are strong. We know they work because no-one's found the place yet. But I'll still be keeping an eye on you.' She paused, brushing hair from her eyes and she looked at the teen. 'So, would you like to head outside for awhile?'

So that was how Dudley found himself outdoors, standing amidst the wild flowers in the glade. The autumn breeze wafted through the air, carrying miniscule grains of pollen along with it. The birds had failed to return to their sanctuary. The tall witch stood under the shade of the porch, watching him from a safe distance with dark eyes. His parents were somewhere inside the large house. Maybe they were watching too.

He took a few more steps, letting the pollen dust his jeans. The new air was refreshing; he closed his eyes to left it drift through his nose. But the silence, stretching through such a large span of space, was slightly unnerving.

It was odd to think of school in session. Odd to think of his "friends" going on with their lives as if nothing had happened…and perhaps, apart from his disappearance from their lives, nothing had. He wondered if Piers was still running the old gang – it was surprising how quickly the idea had become shameful; it had taken him roughly two years to work up the courage to abandon the downward spiral: the gang-beatings, the stealing, the smoking…

But people didn't simply walk away from such holes. His mother had cried over the wounds; he never told her the cause. His father had been disappointed, but he had said little else about the manner. But he had lost his following that day. His pride. He'd gone through the remainder of the year alone, unable to talk to anyone. The one perhaps he could have talked to…the bridge was too wide to bridge.

They were miserable thoughts, accompanied by a picture-perfect scene.

For some reason, the lack of birds still unnerved him.

He had brought a transfigurated ball with him. He wouldn't really call it a ball; it was round and made of synthetic rubber, but it failed to bounce on wood or earth. He tossed it up in the air and caught it again; it would be a shame, after all, for the flowers to become trampled further under the weight falling upon it. There was little joy engaging in the activity, but it was a reasonable past-time.

It was easy to forget about the rest of the world. The sun winked at him in the sky, framed in blue with no clouds in sight. The flowers danced in the gentle breeze, a rainbow of colours showering across the earth. Not even a grasshopper chirped in the silence. It was only the whooshing of air as the ball rose and fell into his arms again.

How many people were dying outside the barrier? No doubt that weird radio would tell. That one programme that apparently told the truth above all else: Potterwatch. Heh, Harry had even gotten his own radio show as a name-sake while he was out, saving the world with his friends.

It seemed very very sad that Dudley Dursley would give anything to be in his cousin's position. Even without magic.

Because it suddenly hit him that, even in such a paradise scene, he had no friends to speak of.

The warm glade rapidly chilled. Cried echoed in his ears – his own. They were a distant memory; the sun still shone brightly in the sky. Blackness drifted…it was odd, how the yellow circle blared through that, and yet it brought no comfort. It brought no company.

He didn't have that company. The ball fell as he failed to grasp it, tumbling through the lush flowers, crushing the stem of several yellow ones…

He bent down to pick up the ball. It had been a nice gesture, but rather useless. He had no friends to play with.

He wondered if Harry would have saved his life if it wouldn't have weighed down on his soul? He wondered if anyone else would have done it? Piers? His so-called ex-friends? Hmmph; they'd have ran and left him for dead. His parents…he loved them, and they loved him back, but somehow he couldn't imagine them sacrificing their lives for his sake.

Why was he thinking about such things anyway? All he was doing was scaring himself silly within a protective barrier and on a perfectly nice day.

'Would you like some herbal tea?'

Hestia had appeared behind him again.

'You look like you could use some cheering up. Or perhaps Firewhiskey, and a side of…I'm afraid you'll have to deal with dry bread. Butter is no good for a growing boy like you.'

Somehow, she managed to make the small speech sound rather tactless.

'And why don't you help? It will do you some good to learn how to run a house by yourself? Goodness knows you won't be living with your parents forever.'

Dudley blinked at that. Not only was his spoiled nature being tackled quite frankly (and by someone no-where near as frightening as the late Albus Dumbledore; he now had a few "Chocolate Frog" cards demonstrating the wizard, all that remained before the franchise underwent a rewrite) but she was not going to do the chore by magic.

'Magic can't make food?' he asked, slightly bewildered. It had seemed magic could do almost anything except bring the dead back to life. He was sure Harry would have done that if he could: his parents, that boy named Cedric about whom he'd teased his cousin so mercilessly about, his Godfather…

'Oh no.' Hestia shook her black curls. 'It's one of the five principle exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration.'

That made no sense at all, but it was a far more comforting thought than being alone, whether that be under the Dementor's chill of the Autumn's sky.

A bird chirped somewhere in the distance.

'I can make tea,' he said spontaneously. He was thinking about the cup he'd left for his cousin. Of course, no-one had actually _tasted_ its contents.

'Oh, I know all about that sad excuse of a beverage,' the woman said briskly, walking back towards the house. 'Your Aunt Marge's Ripper wouldn't be able to stomach that.'

Now how did she know all that?

Hestia glanced at his expression. 'Even if you _are_ a Muggle,' she said. 'There's no reason why you shouldn't know about magic. After all, the possibility of your own children being magical are quite high, I should think.'

Now that lady was just jumping the gun. Who was talking about marriage? He was yet to find a girl he liked. That was another sad fact.

It wasn't so bad though, he thought to himself an hour or so later, staring at the upright tea leaf in his cup. The two wizards looking after them were going out of their way for them. They didn't _have_ to do that, especially since they knew full well how long they'd gotten along with their hero, Harry Potter.

Word count: 1734


	3. Scene 3

**A/N: **This is written for Lady Phoenix Fire Rose's: The Scenery Competition Round 3. And finally, a Harry scene.

Sorry for the bad writing. Did this in about half an hour – this timing was worse than the first round. :) But I'm stubborn I guess. I can't just quit.

* * *

_**The Vigilant Night**_

_Scene 3_

They had apparated into a mound of snow. Literally.

'H-Her-mi-o-ne-' Harry's teeth refused to stop chattering, particularly as they had just left a rather vicious wind-storm.

'S-sorry,' the woman stuttered back, muttering an incantation soonafter. After a moment, the snow began steaming. Another incantation followed; he wasn't quite sure what the new one accomplished.

'It would defeat our efforts of staying hidden if someone spotted the steaming snow,' Hermione replied, still shivering and pain. The chattering in her teeth had reduced though as the warmth stole through her body.

Physically anyway. The chilliness in her heart persisted with a certain red-head's absence.

Harry remained silent; he knew such actions calmed her, so he simply held the Invisibility Cloak like a canopy over their heads as the brunette witch wrought her magic. In the blue light, she looked like a fire goddess blown from the pages of a picture book – one he'd read in the corner of the library as he hid from Dudley's gang. The one where the spirits sung happily, each powerful and willing to save the world.

He half-wondered if they had become living personifications of those spirits. The Golden Knight. The fire-sorceress. The white priest. But the roles didn't really fit them; in real life, they never did.

'We'd better set up camp,' Hermione said after a moment of silence. 'I'll cast the spells. You get the tent.'

It was always like that. Before…before Ron had left them, they'd alternate the jobs. Sometimes, it would be the red-head Weasley's turn to do the defence while Hermione pointed her wand at the tent and erected it. Or it would be his, and Ron would struggle with the ropes and pegs until Hermione took pity on him.

But now, it was just him picking up his wand and muttering a half-hearted incantation. The result was never as neat as Hermione's, but unlike his several previous attempts she did not call him out on it.

Well, at least it would keep the snow and cold out, and that was what was important.

'I'm done,' the brunette murmured after a moment, lowering her wand down and climbing into the tent, leaving the flap open so she could see into the sky. 'It's quite late.'

'Yes it is,' Harry agreed. 'We should eat something and get to bed.'

'We should.' But neither of them made a move – and not because they had nothing edible with them.

'There will be fish in the pond,' Harry said half-heartedly.

'Perhaps,' the girl replied disinterestedly. 'I'm not really hungry. I think I'll…just go to bed.' Her face was carefully blank.

'I'll go find some fish anyway,' the black-haired boy said, after a pause. 'We might be hungry later on.' He stopped again. 'Will you be okay by yourself?'

Her brown eyes bore into his green. 'Of course.'

Harry wondered how she could make such a firm statement seem so unsure.

'Well…I'll be right back.'

And so left the tent, lowering the flap behind him.

The snow was piled up three feet high. Nothing was visible from the top of the hill that was not completely covered in snow. The world all around was completely white. Just barely noticeable was the appearance of several snow covered trials going into the forest at the foot of the hill, though it wouldn't be for much longer. A blizzard was coming in fast.

So they'd been lucky. He'd have to find some fish quickly if he wanted a meal.

Except…he didn't really.

He followed the trails anyway; a quick look had showed them to be an animal's. Deer perhaps. The world got colder, and whiter as the tent quickly vanished from view; he stopped immediately, doing a quick Point-Me spell while pulling the Invisibility Cloak more firmly around his frame.

Once he was sure he would not get lost, he continued on.

Within minutes, the gentle snow had stolen the tracks, but still he continued on. He was sure there was a pond here somewhere – or he was sure he remembered Hermione mentioning one. Perhaps it was a different campsite; he had long since lost their bearings. And if the brunette had failed to correct her, she must have as well.

Or she was still suffering. Silently, with tears falling onto her frail pillow.

He ignored the stab of guilt and continued on.

A little while later, he stopped. Tall trees surrounded him, white and yet dark by the cover of an approaching storm. It would be stupid and reckless to go any further; days of bad weather had taught him how fast that storm would be upon them. Nothing but white mounds and trunks surrounded him. Mounds under which the world had been buried.

He hated hit. He absolutely hated how the snow covered everything, painting the world out in its cover of white. How it made things seem permanent. Etched. How it could still look innocent while concealing so much blood underneath.

How they had to endure the sight of it, day in and day out, no matter where they apparated. Where they hid. Because the entire country it seemed was drowning in snow…and there was no new lead for the Hocrux. They were stuck, five feet deep in snow.

Another foot, and they'd never be able to come out.

He pulled his wand out on a whim, raising it to eye level. 'Accio deer,' he said quietly, but there was no need for such caution. The wind silenced all other sound.

Beside him, a mound erupted, uncovering the frozen carcass. Long since dead, the deer had been almost entirely stripped of meet. A coyote perhaps, the boy wondered – before freezing as he wondered how he could think of such things with little emotion.

Perhaps his heart was freezing too. Just another thing he attempted to deny to himself. Attempted to ignore.

The deer was truly pitiful. It was nothing like Cedric, full of life if death hadn't been so clearly carved into his body. Nothing like Dumbledore, the sprawled form lying twisted at the base of Hogwart's tallest tower. Nothing like Hedwig, the snowed over form lying at the base of her case, blank eyes staring up at him –

He raised his wand again, feeling the rush of fire through his fingers.

He returned to the tent empty handed. Anything was better than stripping the poor beast with what remained.

Word count: 1063


	4. Scene 4

**A/N:** Finally, round four complete. Had a very hard time coming up with an idea, and I debated separating it because it's relation to "waiting" is extremely vague…however, it is there so I left it in. Enjoy.

* * *

_**The Vigilant Night**_

_Scene 4_

The stream seemed to giggle as it flowed into the lake. The light breeze breathed whispers into listening ears, telling quiet tales of the past. Its appearance was majestic: sparkling flashes of beautiful blues and greens. The water was the clearest and purest for hundreds of miles. It was an allure that drew the humans and animals within hundreds of miles to the substance.

A young boy stood its edge: a figure glaringly bright and sharp amidst the water-coloured canvas he was pressed against. Out of place in the gentle nature, he gave off the impression of a stark lamp having been flicked on in the midst of a dim romance, complete with its barely seeing scented candles, tiny moth flames dancing in the darkness like an alluring charm. The child could not be older than ten – it was doubtful that he had gone beyond eight, but his eyes made it difficult to gauge an exact age. The thing that could be best surmised was that he was, in effect, ruining the image.

Perhaps he realised it, because his face tightened while taking in the view, but he made no move to rectify the situation, or indeed draw closer. Ghosts wandered around him, shadows with no face and name fleeting towards the beautiful water calling the children into her embrace; humans or animals, dead or alive, they all flocked to her. Will seemed to be of no consequence; every face wore the same ethereal beauty, the raptured joy that could be diluted with nothing the imperfect earth had to offer.

_His_ face however did not change. Nor did his heart become full with the glistening sun that shone from both the ground and the sky. The flaming orb hung low, his image copied to perfection in the water far below…and yet, it was not so far as his hands reached out to caress the gentle ripples from the giggling stream.

The rays abstained from touching the boy, even as every other guest of Heaven felt his caresses. It too could feel the marring of their perfect world, the wrongness with the image.

The boy did not care. His eyes remained locked on the pure water.

For a long moment, he did not move. He was far enough to savour only a glimpse, a black ink-stain on a faded canvas – until he finally took a step, childish curiosity seizing his soul. It was an emotion that little plagued him – the world was not a place in which there existed much to offer him – but when it did, he seldom saw reason to restrain it. The first step was fluidly followed by a second one, and then a third –

And the water stilled. The people stopped. The sun withdrew its warming touch, leaving a slight chill to waft through the air and the miniscule breeze to resemble a banshee in volume before it too froze.

He stopped for a moment, face impassive. The canvas stared back at him, utterly frozen. Anger welled from within.

'What are you,' he sneered, a hint of bitterness and pain lacing his tone and far more buried deep within his soul. 'To deny me what I want?'

The world trembled. _'Don't come!'_ it seemed to cry in reply; no gender could be assigned to a combination that existed in such fragile balance. _'Don't come any closer!'_

The boy ignored the world, taking an extra step. It began to move again; the animals fled as if the Devil itself were after them, hooves and claws ripping through the pale green slivers of grass and faded leaves. The people followed with no less grace, shoes of all sorts digging into the rusted earth. The wind curled with the tallest branches of faraway trees. The sun withdrew higher, to his safe-haven behind the clouds that promised a storming retribution. The boy ignored the darkening sky, the face of thunder, as the small steps of confidence brought him closer to the edge.

Only the water remained. Pure. Unblemished. Untouched.

The cold face stared down at her, expression hard. She no longer glimmered with a gently lit wicker of flame, nor did her sparkling depths hold anything of consequence for him. The water remained ad clear as it had been from the distance; a diamond with no value save the chaste lustre it perpetually possessed.

_'Stay – stay away!'_

But the whisper was already fading with hopelessness, dying with a surrendered despair. He took a step closer, then another, and then a few more. He walked forward until the earth dipped away from him, little clumps of dirt crumbling and falling onto the smooth mirror-like surface below. For a moment they marred the insatiable beauty, but then the little grains sunk like the sands of time, leaving the eternal face as it had always been.

Except now it was cold. And empty. A frozen beauty.

Not that it really mattered to him.

He took another step forward and his boot plunged into the cool medium and into the depths that, while having lost her seducing flare, still held his curiousity – or rather, that was the event that should have occurred. For some reason or other, his foot hit something solid. Something unbreakable.

He stepped forward so both boots treaded water – or did not. Instead, they seemed to stride upon an invisible barrier that separated the two words.

_'Go away.'_

The boy scowled. 'Don't tell me,' he began. 'What to do!' His voice rose at the last word, and the foot came down upon the barrier in a temper. The whole world shruddered; there was screaming in the distance. But the water remained. Still. Pure. Unreachable.

_'You cannot come here…'_

The voice was soft, barely a trickle in the powerless breeze. Insignificant by all accounts except it was denying him that water it gave so graciously to all else: little insects, utterly useless, unimportant – and it ignored _him_.

_'You cannot come here…'_

He gritted his teeth, face slowly dripping into an expression of controlled fury. Power rose within him: a snake poised, ready to snap –

The water simply stared back, her face impassive.

Power exploded. There was a load crack as it crashed into something solid, smaller shrieks as it grabbled with some unknown entity –

_'You cannot come here…'_

The snake reared back and struck again, fangs failing to penetrate.

_'Because your soul is too sick…'_

The world began to fade. The distant trees vanished. His head lightened; other things came into being: sounds, rough feelings – the orphanage. Laughing children. Screaming children. Crying children. Foolish children.

The scowl took up permanent residence on his face. The water remained, its face forever frozen beneath his feet.

Or so it seemed, but before the darkness washed it out, he heard the sound of giggling again.

_ 'I'll be waiting…till you get better…'_

How dare this _thing_ insinuate –

'Tom..?'

'...Harry?'

And Harry suddenly found himself awake and staring blankly at his friends, unable to make heads nor tails of his dream…or vision. For when Voldermort, past or present, was concerned, there was no such thing as a simple dream.

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**Word count:** 1166


	5. Scene 5

**A/N:** Okay, so the Scenery Competition is over, with less rounds than were expected. I did end up winning, but it was more default than anything. Thank you to everyone who supported my entries and picked up the spelling/grammar mistakes that snuck on through. Couldn't have done it without you all.

For a while I debated on how much further to continue this, and in the end I decided to finish off with two closing scenes, elsewise I would have gone on indefinitely (and I've got enough of those floating about). So this one's Harry's closing scene, and I'll finish off (hopefully some time next week) with Dudley's.

And that's it from me. Enjoy.

* * *

**_The Vigilant Night_**

_Scene 5_

Dumbledore's office was silent now. When his entrance had brought a standing ovation and a thundering of applause, his exit triggered nothing at all. The portraits were asleep; Dumbledore himself snored merrily over the Headmaster's desk. No doubt McGonnagal would take over the position…once the damage was repaired and the losses recuperated.

He wondered how many old faces would be missing next year. No doubt many students would have to retake the last year; Ginny and Luna had missed an entire semester, and many students lacked the few critical weeks before their OWLs or NEWTs. And then there was himself, Ron and Hermione…and Dean and several other Muggleborns who had turned of age the previous year of this, who hadn't attended at all. And the remaining Muggleborns denied entry to the education that was their right by regimes that had finally been undone.

He knew it would take a while before things sifted back into their normal flow, for their lives to get back on track so to speak. He realised suddenly, Elder Wand in one hand and Invisibility Cloak in the other while his own wand, repaired and functional once more, stayed firmly tucked in his back pocket. He distantly heard Moody chiding him for it: the claim that Wizards greater than him had their buttocks blasted off, and Tonks' curious and somewhat childish reply. It was sad he'd never see either of them again.

It was only once one stopped waiting, once what they had striven for lay in their hands, that they stopped and thought about all these things.

Ron was silent; perhaps he was thinking of Fred. So was Hermione; Harry wondered if she would go back to her parents in Australia, or stay and try and straighten this world out. It was easier for him. He had friends, and people he could be as close to as a family, but his true family was already dead.

But for him…perhaps he could go back to Ginny, if she would have him. Perhaps they could be this time happy together. But the idea felt so remote, so far away – the waves had risen to their maximum and crashed down, leaving nothing but devastation in their wake. With nothing else before them – even the beautiful phoenix that should head the stairs they were now upon had crumbled – it was hard to envision a future bright and fluttering.

At least…at least they knew it was there, and all those people who had waited so long for freedom from Voldermort's realm had come to the end of the war.

It would perhaps take awhile for it to truly end; there were many people still unaccounted for. Harry knew of one: Charity Burbage, the ex-Muggle Studies teacher of Hogwarts. Presumed dead, but her body had never been found…unlike Bagman whose corpse had been stuffed in a shack.

He frowned. Or was it Karkaroff? He couldn't quite remember. A small stab of guilt pierced him when he realised he could not recall the names of the countless faces lying now in the Great Hall. Too many people who had died before their waiting, their hoping, had come to an end.

And now that the waiting was at end, they were still standing, stagnant. Waiting for something to give way, or to direct them.

'I think I –' Hermione began, before shaking her head, bushy hair flying in all directions. Silence drifted in the darkness after that; none of them bothered to light their wands, even though the sun had long set and there was no moon or starlight to illuminate their way. There was no need for it, even if the stairs did stretch beyond them…

'Harry?' Ron spoke from behind. 'What are you going to do now?'

He recalled them asking that very question last year, after Dumbledore's funeral. That time, he had an answer. This time he did not.

'I don't know,' he replied eventually. 'Maybe wait for something to happen.'

He'd have to work out living arrangements, decide whether he was going to complete his final year at Hogwarts, a potential career…and perhaps he should at least tell what remained of his blood family the war was over –

There was an awful lot to do. But it was sporadic. All over the place. He finally had his victory over Voldermort…but it seemed now, at the end of the road, he was waiting for a new road to open up.


	6. Scene 6

**A/N:** Yay, post-Dudley. And one day I'll write my Dudley meeting Harry after years fic and post it up, but that's far down on my to-do list. All the WIPs first…including a bunch of stuff I haven't started posting yet.

And that's it from me. Enjoy.

* * *

_**The Vigilant Night**_

_Scene 6_

The tapping at his window woke him up.

Dudley blinked, then fumbled for the lamp-light. While he'd become more or less accustomed to living in a magical house, in the times his mind was still trapped within the throws of sleep he found himself falling into old habits. Like when he would snap his night-light on before heading off for the bathroom every time a noise awoke him in the night – and a good many of those of late had been from his cousin's nightmares.

He'd never really apologised for that either, even if Harry hadn't looked like he cared for an apology. Maybe he had understood…or more likely the apology would have been worth nothing to him.

No, that wasn't true. He shook his head, blinking at the charms that had flared to life when he failed to close his eyes within the minute and opening the window. Once, he would have been terrified out of his wits – and denying it to anyone who asked. At a later point in that timeline, he would have been terrified still, but this time willing to admit it. After all, if there was some crazy Wizard mass-murderer who murdered the aunt and uncle you never met trying to kill the cousin that lived with you for seventeen years and possibly hunting you down to hold over his head, it was a perfectly reasonable reaction. Of course, nothing had actually appeared at his window during those times, and now things were somewhat calmer.

No, that wasn't true at all. The war "outside" was as bad as it always was. Worse in fact; Hestia had received a message earlier that afternoon saying Hogwarts had been evacuated. Hogwarts: the Wizard school his cousin went to. Or had gone to rather.

The tapping increased, and he pushed the window fully open to allow the barn owl entry.

He'd gotten good at identifying them; Diggle had been relentless, particularly when his mother had initially shrieked at every owl that appeared. Hestia had muttered curses he'd never heard as she tapped the owls on the head and vanished them, glaring at his father every time Vernon muttered: 'barbarians' at the sight.

'I'm simply putting a disillusion charm on them,' she said frostily. 'Wouldn't want the Death Eaters tracking them to us, now would we?' She added under her breath: 'Better they don't send owls at all, but do those fools listen? No.'

Diggle would always giggle at that before launching into lectures describing owl types and effectiveness in post delivery.

Eventually, his mother stopped screeching and his father muttering…but Dudley had to wonder if they would ever get used to such a lifestyle. For him, it was reminiscent of the games he played, the movies he enjoyed…and he realised he had been somewhat jealous, just like his mother before him, of the opportunity to learn such fascinating things and have such amazing friends. Sure, he was popular. But no-one was really close to him. Especially not close enough to break him out of a barred room.

Maybe he'd been afraid of that. Maybe he'd known his cousin was a better person than him. Or maybe he'd just been naïve back then, listening to his parents gushing over his perfection – and it had just gone straight to his head. And immature enough to admit it.

And once it hit home, once he realised how close to death he had come to in the hands of something he couldn't see or touch or comprehend, once he'd lived his greatest nightmares in an almost shell-shocked state and Harry risked expulsion for saving his neck – and he knew Harry could have run and left him there. He was fast. He might have outrun the –

He stopped that train of thought and shivered, unrolling the messy scroll handed to him.

There was no name on the outside; he wondered why the owl was here, staring at him from its new perch on the bedpost, instead of waking the Wizard and Witch that manned the safe-house. Then he opened it.

There were only two words written on it, in a scrawl familiar to him. The same scrawl that had littered one of the newspapers he found in the bin with the shattered tea-mug and some blood. Luckily, he'd spotted his cousin soon after, and saw it was the hand bleeding so it was unlikely the mug was responsible for that. It was a small relief; he didn't know whether it was by accident or on purpose. Of course, Harry might have also grown paranoia and thought it poisoned by someone who was after his life.

Considering the things he had heard throughout his almost year long stay, that wasn't too farfetched. Even if their house was _supposed_ to be safe because they were blood-related.

But he was getting side-tracked again; he re-read the contents of the message.

'It's over,' he repeated out loud. That was it; there was no signature, but he knew it was his cousin's handwriting. Maybe that pre-empted a more detailed message. Maybe it was a means of farewell.

Why it had come to his hands and none other's in the house, he could not know. Maybe he wasn't supposed to know. All that mattered that the _it_ was over. He supposed that meant Voldermort was dead.

He wondered…what did that mean for him? For his parents? For the life he had slowly grown accustomed too, adapted too – hell, he wouldn't mind living like this forever. He loved his home to be sure, but there was just something else in that world he wasn't really a part of. Something meaningful. Something that made him think: what had he really accomplished back on Privet Drive?

So…it was over. He slipped his feet into slippers and went to the door. One wait was done…but what would happen thereafter?

He wished he knew.

* * *

"_Good things come to those who wait."_ - Various


End file.
